


the blue and red collide

by breadpoetsociety (orphan_account)



Series: storms of september [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous Relationships, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Depression, Drinking, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Not really angsty, Smoking, but not really happy, idk you tell me man, just a feeling fic, just like.... trying to find a way, what are they, what are they doing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 06:00:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10075397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/breadpoetsociety
Summary: Lance always wondered why the stars looked brighter on colder nights, closer to diamonds about to rain from the inky blue than the literal burning balls of gas billions of miles away. Wishing on them was pretty futile, but Lance found himself doing it anyway.





	

**Author's Note:**

> title is taken from "hands on the water" by skyhill:
> 
> "The blue and red collide, and the look in your eyes  
> Is telling me that the dawn won't end the night."

It’s like watching himself on a television screen through a Best Buy window, apathetic to the happenings, just witnessing to witness, focusing on the fantastic details like the green-tinged pennies and the understanding way the cashier told Lance to have a good night after passing him a pack of reds and a matching lighter.

This sort of weather was always his favorite– the warm days and cold nights, a perfect dichotomy, juxtaposition, chiaroscuro on a canvas of climate.

And Lance always wondered why the stars looked brighter on colder nights, closer to diamonds about to rain from the inky blue than the literal burning balls of gas billions of miles away. Wishing on them was pretty futile, but Lance found himself doing it anyway.

Inhale, exhale, and smoke rises up to form its own cloud, getting tangled in the trees before making it all the way to the sky. If he imagined hard enough, Lance could feel its rain tapping gently against his brown goosebumped skin. Storms of September finding their way to March.

It’s seven more inhales before Lance can feel the cold metal of the bench under him. It’s fifteen more half-hearted puffs– more a desire for the action than for nicotine– before his vision focuses and he can see beyond the stars again.

The warm lights inside his apartment building blink back into his periphery, the soft sounds of music coming from his phone sitting beside, the occasional person walking closer, footsteps mimicking distant thunder. Wind bringing it closer and closer– and the warm, gloved hand touching his shoulder. A distant voice asking him what he’s doing outside.

A louder voice asking him why he’s smoking. A deafening silence when Keith sits down next to him and wraps a too-tight arm around his shoulders, rubbing the short sleeves, shaking Lance back down to earth. And with a too-deep inhale Lance coughs himself back into the world.

“Come inside?” Keith’s voice was still too soft, too tender, but that was his own doing. And he peered up at Lance with those big, dark, purpley eyes and bit his lip, looking ready to break the skin, painting the pink with red. Lance looked down at his hands and realized they were a matching scarlet around his nail beds.

“Yeah,” and he put out his last cigarette, leaving the box on the bench. He swung Keith’s heavy backpack onto his own shoulders and said something about racing him, beating him, even with this handicap, and Lance sprinted to their building. He coughed the residual smoke out of his lungs and ran with the wild abandon of a child after turning the lights off.

It’s a kitchen welcoming them with only the light of an open microwave and a television paused on a very unflattering shot of a woman in a wedding dress. It takes a moment for Keith to realize Lance’s phone is still humming from his back pocket. It’s owner is somehow much louder even in silence.

Keith tries to ignore the red lines he sees under Lance’s shorts and offers to break into their bottle of Rumchata because what’s more of a special occasion than just spending time with each other? Lance apologizes anyway, because he somehow knows everyone sees.

(And of course, Keith finds it interesting how, years later, white ones still burn under his dark sleeves.)

A plastic cup is shoved into Lance’s residually shaking hands, filled to the brim with rumchata cut with vodka, because nothing in this world is sacred anymore. His fingers tap the rhythm of whatever ambient track is playing. A somber clack of plastic together and the men make quick work of the godless mixture in the clear orange cups.

And then, and only then, does Keith dare to step closer and pull the phone out of Lance’s stiff blue too-short shorts and pause the music. And it’s only then that Lance allows himself to step closer to Keith and rest his head on his shoulder and mumble something about what an insurmountable chasm their two-inch height difference is.

And it’s only when Keith starts rubbing small, hesitant circles into Lance’s back that he’s able to step away and smile convincingly.

(Of course, only to anyone else.)

But Lance is encouraging Keith to grab their emergency six-pack because they should totally play Mario Kart, and I’m absolutely gonna kick your ass, no question. And Keith obliges, because what’s more of a special occasion than playing video games in freshly-donned pajama shorts and leaving their hands on blue carpet just a little too close to each other.

It’s hard to ignore how Lance smells like Old Spice and nicotine and rain, somehow, when his wide shoulders are warming Keith’s thigh, and he’s not forcing his smile anymore. So it’s easy to forget that it’s 3 in the morning and you both have class at noon tomorrow. It’s time to peel bony, teetering bodies off of the floor lit blue by the television screen.

Lance blames Keith for his stumbling but refuses to let go of his hand, following him into the dark cavern of his bedroom, where the perpetually open window allows an icy breeze to envelope the boys and force them to take cover under unwashed sheets and a red plaid comforter.

Lance’s fingers traced the freckles of Keith’s shoulder, mapping them and memorizing them and praying to god he’d be able to retrace his steps here sometime. He pulls out his phone and puts on the same ambient track from before, song in time with their breathing, and Keith’s gentle fingers followed the lines on his thighs. Keith mutters something about an alarm but doesn’t move and his dark eyes tell Lance that he, too, hopes morning doesn’t come.

And Lance tucks his face in the crook of Keith’s neck and inhales the feeling of a temporary home. And it’s all no more, and no less. It just is what it is. And whatever it is can be figured out tomorrow, or whenever they’re okay again.

**Author's Note:**

> so i just want to write lance being anxious and smoking at 3am and keith coming home from the library and finding him and they have some beers and cuddle drunk and it’s just like. calming to get the words out on a page.
> 
> a lot of this is based on personal experience, and much of that experience was accompanied by the album "run with the hunted" by skyhill (and at one point i did have a line in here referencing "the hunter becomes the hunted" but. oh well. rip).
> 
> and honestly a huge thank you to all my friends on discord– especially the sprint squad that always inspires me to actually. sit the fuck down and write. your input and inspiration is super appreciated. 
> 
> anyway, come hang out with me on tumblr @ breadpoetsociety and twitter @ breadpoetsociet


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